


silence will not cover me

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Series: Heaven By Violence [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Additional Characters, Amnesia, Blood-Red Hawke, Broken Worldstate, Gen, Male Mage Hawke (mentioned), Tags Contain Spoilers, Tevinter Imperium, choices and their consequences, heel-face turn, post-Alone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 00:45:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14032431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: Still she looks at him like that, and it eats away at him like the waves eat away the cliffs at the edge of the grounds. Something is there. Something he should know, and does not.It is maddening.With woefully little memory to fall back on, Fenris has no idea why Master's apprentice makes such an odd expression when she sees him.





	silence will not cover me

**Author's Note:**

> Title from [I Will Be](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhGz6BLywIo) by Florence + The Machine.

Sometimes he turns just so and finds Master’s apprentice darting her eyes away.

He has nothing to compare her expression to, the few times he catches it before she returns to that careful blankness, but he wonders sometimes if it is pity. For him, which is illogical because he hasn’t seen her looking at any of the other slaves in such a way, and they could be said to be even lower than he. He knows it not to be any of the expressions that Master has for him, the tenderness when he has done well or the disappointment when he has not. It’s not even wariness, like Master’s peers have for him. It is something he, frustratingly, has no reference for in his short existence.

So he finds himself at a loss for how, or if, to respond to his Master’s apprentice and whatever it is she feels. They have no reason to interact (without her initiative, of course, as she is Above Him), and as far as he knows never have. Still she looks at him like that, and it eats away at him like the waves eat away the cliffs at the edge of the grounds. Something is there. Something he should know, and does not.

It is maddening.

Master notices his unrest, as he notices all things within his domain, and carefully reminds him of his purpose. Those long clever (and how could they bring such pain and such reassurance one moment to the next?) fingers stroke his hair as he sobs wretchedly against his Master’s knee, and he does not tell because he is not asked. Because he knows that he is expected not to trouble his Master further.

Master’s apprentice delves deeper into her studies, working to become like Master, better than Master, and he does not see her for a long time.

Until he does.

Master takes afternoon naps, leaving him to his own devices as the heat reaches dizzying heights. Early on in his memories, scant as they are, he fainted once in the gardens as the sun beat down, and came close several other times, but now he is as comfortable as he will likely ever get. It makes him wonder— no. It is no use to wonder how he wasn’t used to the heat, and is now. That way lies only frustration, and for what? His Master is all he needs. Master will provide.

He turns a corner on the way to the atrium, and runs right into her. Her nose is in a book, a half-dozen scrolls tucked under one arm. She stumbles back, a little ‘oh’ of surprise coming from her, and before he has realized quite what he is doing he’s reaching out to steady her. _Oh_ , his hands are on her shoulders.

His hands are on her shoulders.

He snatches them away, steps back himself, and slides into a graceless heap of a kneel. Master will be so disappointed in him, and that’s infinitely worse than whatever the mage in front of him will do.

“Le—Fenris!” she says, but he denies the temptation, the trap, in looking up.

“Mistress Varania, please accept my most humble apologies.”

Silence but for the shuffling of scrolls as she dumps them on a nearby end-table, then, quietly: “Please get up, Fenris.”

Odd, but a direct order. He rises, with considerably more grace, and chances to meet her eyes. She’s looking at him again, with that same expression. He still can’t puzzle it out, so he can’t hold her gaze. Her flame-red hair is falling out of its tight bun, there are circles under her eyes like she hasn’t slept since he last saw her, and the book in her hand is dog-eared and bits of the cover are worn away. He catches a glimpse of the spine, at the title etched in faded letters.

Letters he can read.

_Memoria Detrimentum_ , it says, and he has barely begun to process that he can read the words, let alone what they could mean, when she clears her throat. “Is the magister asleep?”

He snaps his head back up, for that is a strange thing to ask in such a hushed, urgent voice. Her mouth is pressed in a firm line, her eyes — the same shape, the same color, _do not think it_ — clear and focused on him, and his head is spinning. “Yes,” he says, almost automatically, because she is still Above Him.

She nods sharply. “Then we have time,” she says, as if he should know what she means. “Follow me.” She grabs her scrolls again, piling them haphazardly in her arms, and strides past him. He falls into step behind her, considers being the good slave and carrying her burdens, but her brisk, determined manner makes him reluctant to speak up. And he wonders what she is doing, what _they_ are doing, if he is going to have to face his Master’s disappointment again.

Perhaps luckily for him, he does not have long to wonder. Mistress Varania’s tower is not far, as near the library as possible, just a few corridors down from the atrium as well. She bustles him inside, throws the deadbolt, and he feels the prickle of magic on his markings as she layers ward upon ward over the door. Far more wards than necessary, he thinks, if she weren’t planning something she didn’t want interrupted at any cost. He shudders, and it has nothing to do with the magic. Is she going to hurt him? Worse, is she going to betray Master?

They speak at the same time.

“All right—”

“Mistress—”

He snaps his mouth shut, flinching away, but she just regards him — again with that expression! — for a moment before shaking her head and moving past him to the center of the room. It is a workspace, he realizes, with a spiral staircase in the corner presumably leading up to living quarters. Bookshelves line the room, tables piled high with crystals and alembics and devices he doesn’t recognize are everywhere, and along one wall is a cot with a pillow and blanket.

“For when I’m too tired to climb the stairs,” she offers, dumping her scrolls and book on one less-occupied table. “Drag it over here, if you please. Just have to organize my notes.”

He resists the urge to obey. “Forgive me, Mistress, but what are your intentions with me?”

She flinches, then goes very still. “I…” Slowly, she turns her head to look at him, like it takes great effort. “I’m sorry. After so long, I forget what it was like. I’ll explain, but you should probably sit down first. _On the cot_ ,” she adds, when he goes to kneel again.

His instincts scream at him that this is wrong, that something is going to happen that he will not like. The rest of him — the ingrained servitude, yes, but also something more fragile and sentimental, for she has never been cruel to him and she is an elf too — forces one foot in front of the other and drops onto the (surprisingly hard, for a magister’s apprentice) cot.

“All right. All right. I can’t believe I’m doing this. _Fasta vass_.”

He startles a little, because she has never sworn in his presence before, and because she is getting agitated as she paces in front of him, a sheet of notes in her hand. Her magic, crackling in the air, makes his markings itch and burn.

Finally she stops, with her back turned to him, and all he can see are her hunched shoulders trembling and her hair, now almost completely out of its bun. “You name was once Leto,” she says quietly, so quietly, but it rings in the tower. “And you were my brother.”

“What?” he cracks out, but is unable to say anything else. _Her eyes, her_ eyes—

“We grew up in this house,” she continues like he hadn’t said anything. Perhaps that is the only way she will be able to get through it. “Slaves to Danarius. He put on a tournament, offered a boon. You trained for months. You won, and you asked for our freedom — me, and Mother. That was the last time I saw you until a year ago. He… he came to me after Mother died… told me I could be his apprentice if I helped bring you back.”

She turns around, clutching her hands together in front of her. She’s biting at her lip, face screwed up as she blinks back tears, so wretched and unlike a mage that, in any other circumstance, this would be the most unsettling thing to Fenris.

But it is not any other circumstance; it is here and now, and he’s still trying to decide whether to believe her — his memories do run up against a void if he searches back too far, and oh, her eyes, but she could also be tricking him or toying with him, intoxicated on her power — when she speaks again.

“You had escaped…”

This is the point where he stops listening, where he knows for certain that she is laying a trap. Why would he want to escape, and how could he manage it? If slavery was his whole life… No. It is a trap, and he will not fall for it. Maybe she was once his sister, but no more. He blanks his face and lets her words roll over him, maintaining only a semblance of attention. None of her lies matter.

It takes a beat too long for him to realize she is done webspinning; she’s looking at him with wide eyes of (false) hope and worry, and he averts his gaze. “If there is nothing else, Mistress, may I return to my Master’s side?” he asks in as dead a tone as he can manage.

She flinches, face falling before she rallies herself. “No.” She breathes in, holds it, breathes out. “No. Even if you don’t believe me — I can tell you don’t, Leto, don’t try to play that dutiful slave game with _me_ — I can show you.”

“Mistress—”

“Don’t move.” She consults her notes again, half-crumpled by the fists she’d been making, and sets them on the table behind her. When she reaches out he flinches, nearly topples backward, but she is undeterred. There isn’t any magic in her hands yet, he forces himself to remember, and even if there was, he could do nothing.

“I am trying to help you, Leto,” she says softly, as her hand alights on his forehead, cool and callused. She traces the three lyrium dots there with her thumb, and up close her expression tugs at something in his head, something he should remember—

Magic bursts from her hand, engulfing his vision in a pale blue glow, and presses into his mind before his markings can do much more than flicker in warning.

At first he feels nothing new, sitting there on her spare bed with her hand on his forehead, but then he _knows_.

She is Varania, his sister, and that expression is _remorse_.

Remorse for… _Oh_. The Hanged Man, Mas— Danarius sidling down the stairs of that dingy bar like he owned it and everything in it. Varania, backing away from her own betrayal. The cold and anticipation creeping up his neck as he prepared to fight. Danarius taunting him, taunting Hawke—

Hawke—

Garrett, his lover, his beacon in the darkness, looking Danarius up and down thoughtfully, before the magister even opens his mouth. The cock of his head, the smirk that is a mockery of the easy grin he held for everyone, the shift in warm brown eyes as he makes his decision and hands Fenris over. Merrill — and he was cruel to her, but he can no longer justify it, not now — and her protests, Varric and his shell-shocked sarcasm. Surprise and delight in Danarius. Fury, then _knowing_ , in him.

He went with Danarius rather than throw his life away, and Danarius still took it.

And Hawke let him, turned on him as he should have expected, how could he have been so stupid—

“Breathe, Leto,” Varania whispers, and there is remorse, again, but infinite sorrow in her voice also. She’s taken her hand away, but the glow remains. It is him, shining bright, the lyrium turning him into a star that will one day explode gloriously. Perhaps this is that day. “Breathe.”

“Why?” he chokes out. It’s not directed at her, but it’s not a real question either. Hawke is just like any other mage, just as he should have known all along. He knows why, now.

Still, she chooses to answer. “He promised me he would make me his apprentice. You’d made us free, but freedom was worse. To be Liberati here… Leto, I was willing to do anything to escape it.”

He looks up at her, a dozen scathing retorts on his tongue, but he is unable to give voice to them.

“So I lead him to you, and I became his apprentice. But even that isn’t—” She makes a frustrated noise. “It’s everything I always wanted, but it isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough for me. I know that now. So what else can I do, but try to make it right?”

It doesn’t make any sense to him, but even as a child Varania could never explain herself properly. Her mind leapt like a deer, and was prone to taking shortcuts he couldn’t follow.

But. _Make it right_. His mouth goes dry. “What are you going to do?”

She turns her face away, clenches her fists at her sides. “Whatever it takes. But I’ll need your help.” She does not want to admit this, he can tell. In this they are truly kin.

“Varania. You know his power. Are you strong enough?” It’s unlikely. Danarius was born into magic, surrounded by it. She came into hers late, and has only been able to explore it very recently. All the raw talent in the world cannot beat both ability and _experience_.

She raises her head, lips quirking in a smile’s shadow. “Of course not,” she admits easily. “But I know who is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Remaining chapters will be posted sometime after I begin posting _Heaven by Violence_ , as they contain spoilers for what's supposed to be a twist in the longfic.


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